


keep watch and pray

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi, Organized Crime, Priests, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22819192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: There's an unexpected danger to assumptions. Never trust that you know what's on an enemy's mind, and even more so, assume that you do not know your allies.Of course, a failure to know that isn't always a curse.
Relationships: Orphaner Dualscar/The Signless | The Sufferer, The Condesce & The Signless | The Sufferer, The Condesce/Orphaner Dualscar, The Condesce/Orphaner Dualscar/The Signless | The Sufferer
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20
Collections: Polyswap Leap Promptfest - Dusk Edition





	keep watch and pray

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [The_Shame_Basement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Shame_Basement/pseuds/The_Shame_Basement) in the [Polyswap_Leap_Promptfest_Dusk_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Polyswap_Leap_Promptfest_Dusk_2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> old ex-marine thinks the local priest and the local crimeboss are each trying to seduce him into joining their side. turns out they're in cahoots, and they both want to make him their co-owned bitch.  
> (bonus points for dualscar coming real fast in his pants bc he's so Overwhelmed!)

Her hand cups you through the soft fabric of your favorite pair of jeans, and you hope to god you don't ruin them—you've had them for ages, finally gotten them all broken in and perfect, and Calida Peixes is a bitch for ruining the things a man loves.

"I believe we had an agreement." Your mind finally registers soft footsteps behind you, two seconds before it translates that voice (that _voice_ ) into something you know by name. "Starting without me is unfair."

You are used to hearing that voice, loud or soft, underlaid with the murmurs of a congregation and the warmth of glass stained light as it fell onto your skin; you are unused to hearing that voice echoing off the walls of the "secondary" cellar of what's supposed to be a pub, punctuated by the clink of long glass bottles. Natael Vantas. Local priest.

When he finally circles around into your view—it feels like an eternity spent staring up at Calida, trapped on your knees with your hands bound behind your back—the sight's enough to make you even harder. He's dressed down, out of his usual holy man's attire, into something that still looks like exactly what a priest would wear. From here it's easy to see that contrast between them, Calida dressed to the nines and Natael dressed simple and clean.

You hate that they know how into that you are.

The clinking in Natael's hands turned out to be wineglasses and pilfered bottles of communion red, and they turn away from you, making light conversation as Natael fills up each glass. You count three, over and over, and wonder if they'll actually let you have a taste, or if it's meant to be another mockery, another tacit attempt to put you in your place.

It's hard for you to believe that you'd ever thought them to be enemies. Harder for you to believe that you ever thought you'd be _allowed_ to pick a side.

Much as you hate to admit to it, kneeling before the both of them feels...

Well. It feels a hell of a lot more _right_.

God, you really hate yourself sometimes.

There's a tap of wineglasses somewhere above you that jerks your head up and pings your awareness: They've stopped talking; they're looking at you. As much as you despise yourself right now, for how easily turned on you are by your situation, you're always willing to admit to basic facts. For instance, you're considered an incredibly attractive man by a good many people, and the way they're staring at you right now confirms that this is true for the both of them as well.

"He doesn't look half bad like that," Natael murmurs. You'd smirk, if you weren't well-aware of what he's talking about—you, shirtless, button of your jeans undone by Callida's clever fingers, arms bound back and maybe chained to some kind of post or wall, your curls damp with swear and hanging down into your eyes—and hoping he's not aware of your current internal situation. "What made you decide to move the timetable this far forward?"

Timetable? When they finally finish having their fun and let you go, you're going to have several questions that need answering.

"He came to confront me, believe it or not." Calida drinks, long and deep, and you're sure she does it in such a way that you can't look at anything but the beautiful shape of her throat. "My guess is that he felt less guilty over interrogating me than he would you, _father_."

And Natael laughs, and it's an equally beautiful thing, the two of them together more than enough to set your dick throbbing. You do not whimper, but it is a close run thing, and from the way their eyes snap to your crotch, you think they're more aware of your pains than they're letting on. "He looks thirsty." Natael plucks the last glass from wherever he's set it, hands it over to Calida, and you shudder with far more than regret. This is so many kinds of a bad idea, and—

"Chin up, Ampora." Her voice drags down your spine like velvet, like nails, and you obey, knowing what picture you'll present when you look up at her through long lashes, your chest bare and gleaming with sweat. Maybe you ought to spend a little less time thinking about how attractive you are. "Open your mouth."

There's little left for you to do but obey, looking up at her, at him, in supplication of the most humiliating sort. She revels in this kind of power over people, you know it, but the gleam in his eyes is an unexpected thing—

Calida tips the glass.

Wine pours down over your skin, and if some lands in your mouth, you're sure it's by chance. You hold still, best as you can, taking whatever she wishes to dish out and refusing to show that she might've rattled you, refusing—Vantas, Vantas is standing there, looking you over, contemplating. "He still looks thirsty," he says, and you swallow hard. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He's a man of the cloth, he's supposed to be better than that.

 _He's a man of the cloth who stole communion wine for a secret meeting with a crime boss_ , your conscience reminds you, and it's with that thought that you let the next deluge take you, an entire bottle of rich, near-purple red spilling over your skin. Natael lifts the last of the bottle—you wish you knew how much was left, you can't think straight—to your lips. "Drink."

You obey.

* * *

At some point they flipped a coin, but you weren't paying enough attention. All you know is that it means Natael goes first, burying his dick in your throat, one hand in your well-ruined curls. Calida is watching with a sneer, for the first part of it (the part where Natael seems to consider easing you into it for moments long enough to give you hope that he'll play the good cop to her bad), then the moment he'd stopped letting you lick over him and thrust deep, she'd, something.

"Something" is your operative word, because you can't see her, you can't know what she's doing, all you can do is move your head as Natael directs and try damn hard not to let the minimal friction in your wine-stained jeans get to you. You're already straining towards something of your own; the last thing you want that something to be is release.

"I think," Calida says, and oh god, oh fuck, she's right behind you, "we should keep him. Break him down, train him—he'll make a good bitch once he's learned a lesson or two."

"I suppose I'm willing," Natael says, and you almost choke on him, "if you can learn to share."

One perfect hand wraps around your throat, and your eyes slip shut as your body strains up, her cool skin to your overheated body, right atop the stretch of Natael's dick in your mouth, and—

The world goes a foggy white, and your hips jerk once, twice, as you come hard in your jeans, no more contact than hands in your hair, a palm on your throat.

"Oh," she says, like she's _surprised_ , like this wasn't the outcome she was hoping for all along, and then, damn her, she laughs—and then, damn you, you _like_ it. "You know, I just might."


End file.
